


The Capture: A memory

by PerhapsSeeker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Really really sorry about this, Sadness, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerhapsSeeker/pseuds/PerhapsSeeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a drabble I wrote for the background of my John Watson Rp account. During the four years Sherlock's been gone, John has been hired by Mycroft to work as a mercenary, taking down Moriarty's web.</p><p>He does very well, becoming known in the criminal world.</p><p>Moran takes notice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Capture: A memory

“Where. Is. HE?!” Each furious word came with a vicious slash of the blade across John’s chest. Today is day 45. 

John’s blood glistens on his torn chest as some of the other scars as well. The crimson streams down over his hazel colored body. The stifling heat of the desert wafting in from the small barred window 15 feet from the ground.

Sebastian Moran, the second most dangerous man in London, takes a large breath. The cheaply made cigarette is in hailed nearly all the way. He taps the ashes onto John’s chained and bloodied forearm.

“I know you know where he is.”

“In a grave.” John replies, his voice hoarse from not having any water and the heat. He manages enough saliva to spit at Moran. This just angered Moran.

“We both know that isn’t true.” 

Moran paces, agitated. He throws the knife at John suddenly and John is unable to tip the chair. The knife nicks his bad shoulder before hitting the wall and clattering to the sandy cement ground.

John tries to take slow calming breaths…. Stay calm…. stay calm….

~Please God… Let me die.~

John is surprised by this thought. Surprised by how negative it is and how welcoming it sounds. 

Pain blooms from John’s chest like a poisonous plant. The dark red of the blood starting to stick. It drips down his bare torso to his tattered pants.

Moran charges up to John and grabs him by the hair. Jerking John’s head up to face his, Moran hisses.

“The soldier he left behind. Fighting a war that is far too big.” Moran releases John’s head and kicks the chair in one swift movement. John’s head makes a loud thwack, as it cracks against the floor. He sees darkness… Complete and utter darkness. 

“The soldier he abandoned, forced to fight a war all on his own.” Are the last words he hears before completely succumbing to the darkness.

~

When John awakens again, he finds himself unchained and in a puddle of blood in the corner of the cell. A medical kit -although it really couldn’t be called that. All it had was gauze, tape, and a sewing kit inside the little tin box- lay at his feet. The moonlight streams into his cell and he can make out some constellations. He catalogs his injuries, using his shaking hand to write on the wall with his blood. This was how the corner was. Covered in dark brown words in different categories. Order. He needed to keep order to keep sane.

As he starts to patch himself up, he can sense the figure watching him from the corner.

“I’m fine.” He whispers.

“No. No you aren’t John. You’re dying.” The familiar baritone echoes throughout the cell.

“You are the one who’s dead.”

“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

John chuckles but then cries out in pain. He grits his teeth and John whispers,

“Keep calm and carry on, eh mate?”

But there is no response. 

John deflates, going back to patching himself up. 

The only water in this part of the desert is glistening in the moonlight, on the cheeks of Captain John Hamish Watson.


End file.
